Les Familles Sacro-Saintes
by renee walker
Summary: The 28 Sacrosanct Families of France. They live lives of glamor and beauty, too much wealth draping over their shoulders, bitterness binding their mouths and happiness glazing their eyes. These are their stories.
1. Introduction

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter series, JK Rowling does.**

* * *

 _Les Familles Sacro-Saintes_

The Sacrosanct Families of France are precious and powerful, just as powerful as the Sacred Twenty-Eight of Britain. There are twenty-eight _Sacro-Sainte_ families, as many as to rival Britain, with long, influential bloodlines, one leading to their current _Ministre de la Magic_ , or Minister of Magic.

The French families are the ones with galas and balls that show off their age-old homes, everyone dressed to the nines in fine dress robes and quality shoes, glittering with as many jewels as their mansions. The ones overflowing with wealth that shows in everything they have, especially in their divine taste. The ones bred with festivals in their childhood, ancient wine in their hands, classical composers in their ears and dances ingrained in their steps.

* * *

Monique Lavigne sipped her wine (vintage _Château d'Yquem_ , 1825) and glanced around the ballroom with a critical eye.

Everything was white and gold, the pillars, the gilding on the ceiling, the giant diamond chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, and it all complimented the lightly patterned, cream floor. Wizards and witches of the most prestigious status flew around in the middle of the floor in a traditional Wizarding dance and more moved on the second floor of the ballroom where arching spaces allowed them to peer down.

" _Comment ca va_ , Monique?" Lucrèce Charbonneau cooed, sweeping in beside her. She was dressed beautifully, of course, in sapphire robes that complimented her thick black hair. There were silver threads sewn in between the blue of her robes, intricate pearls around her neck.

" _Ca va bien, merci_ , Lucrèce. _Et toi_?" Monique replied, giving her friend a half-smile as she caught her looking Monique's royal purple, gold-beaded dress robes and diamond jewelry considerately.

Lucrèce echoed her, " _Ca va bien, merci._ " And they engaged in friendly conversation for they were genuine friends - just genuine, competitive friends. They had no real reason to be competitive, of course, their families were both in completely different businesses and good friends. Yet - Monique played the harpsichord, Lucrèce played the bombarde. Monique had perfect, neat penmanship but Lucrèce possessed flawless, gorgeous calligraphy. It was just a natural thing that came to both of them, was simply how they were.

The song ended and another, livelier Wizarding dance began.

They spot Anastasie and Léopold Blanc dancing with each other, breaking apart and coming together, feet blurring beneath their fine dress robes. Anastasie's platinum blonde hair was piled on her head. The rings on Léopold's fingers were glittering in the diamond light.

"If they weren't siblings, I'd dare say they'd be a good couple," Lucrèce mused and Monique snorted.

"You're such a romantic, honestly. They're brother and sister, anything other than platonic love would be disgusting."

"It's not like it hasn't happened before. Aren't you, what, my seventh cousin five times removed?" countered Lucrèce and Monique rolled her eyes.

"This is modern time, it's frowned upon now," she said breezily, waving a hand about. Lucrèce laughed, an unfeminine, snorting sound that made Monique laugh in turn.

Lucrèce looked thoughtful when they calmed down. "Léopold's gotten taller," she commented and Monique's eyes narrowed as she took another sip of wine.

"Are you serious? You're not seriously thinking of dating Léopold are you?"

"Don't be silly, Monique, I'm just stating the obvious. He's attractive. That doesn't mean I want to date him."

"Oh, yes, silly _me_ ," Monique said dryly and rolled her eyes again as she took another mouthful. "You're not drinking tonight?" She noticed only because Lucrèce drank a bit stronger than her, two fingers of whiskey or Scotch like the men, and Monique always had a glass of wine at galas. There was no glass in her hand today.

Lucrèce shook her head, a delicate movement that Monique interpreted as as _not yet_. "Mother wanted me to be completely sober for the first half of the gala," she explained. She looked strained. Monique felt a twinge of sympathy, deep in her chest. "She informed me how unladylike it was for me to have something strong, as if I'll do something embarrassing even though I hold my liquor better than anyone else who drinks it." Her lips curled in an angry frown. There were lines creasing the smooth skin of her forehead that Monique wanted to smooth out.

"She thought it was uncouth," Monique paraphrased and Lucrèce nodded, subdued. "That's rather ludicrous. She's never had a problem with you drinking before."

Lucrèce's glossy mouth flattened into a thin line. "She wanted me to begin Courting. Begin making a good impression."

Around the two girls, everything shimmered with magic. It was the result of hundreds of powerful magic being radiated from wizards and witches, the spells cast on hair and clothes and floating trays of food, the natural magic all around them and the building itself, infused with magic itself. It was the Old magic, the powerful one that came from so many who knew the Old ways, the magic that struck a fire inside wizards and witches alike and made them burn. Everyone had there own magic and there was always magic around them, but for those who knew the Old ways, even for some who didn't, the magic was potent, precious and bountiful, almost a physically overwhelming thing and it was beautiful.

 _Les Familles Sacro-Saintes_ were lucky to feel this way, the majority of French possessed a potently ethereal magic, unlike the British Sacred Twenty-Eight families. Their ancestry, the Old ways, the beautiful gleam of magic, was fading into a new, more modern magic that didn't possess the same sort of wonder as the French families knew it did for themselves.

But all Monique could think about was not her gratefulness for this, for her heritage and magic, but that her best friend was going to begin Courting soon. " _Pourquoi_?" she managed. " _Qui_?"

"I'm becoming of age in a few months. We're going back to Beauxbatons for our Seventh Year. It's - she thought I was going to begin Courting sooner. I don't know who, yet."

"That's not fair though," Monique snapped, keeping her voice low. "It's your choice."

Lucrèce tipped her head back and laughed, a full, booming thing, complete with an unflattering snort that sounded rather satirical. "Since when have we ever had a choice, Monique, amour?"

"Since we were born," she said, her expression tight. "Merde."

"Language, darlings, really," a voice drawled and Monique loosened her expression into something friendlier, more jovial. She turned to come face to face with Maxence Couture. He was smirking, robed in a deep, rich navy with gold accents. "What're you talking about?"

" _Rien_ ," Monique said, the lie easy on her tongue. "How're you, Maxence? Looking _tres beau_ as usual. Not that anyone would expect anything less." She didn't let Lucrèce speak, could feel her stiff presence beside her. Lucrèce wasn't as good as putting up a mask when it came to people, not quite good _enough_ at hiding her feelings.

Monique didn't glance to Lucrèce and Maxence held her gaze.

" _Ca va tres bien, merci._ " His grin was wide and easy - there was always something so charismatic about Max. Always had been. "You look lovely, by the way. Is that a Donatienne original you're wearing?"

"You would know," Monique replied evasively. It was and it was gorgeous but Max knew that already. Of course he knew. "Your mother is Donatienne Couture, after all."

"Is he asking you about your robes?" Anastasie asked, coming up behind Max. Her high cheekbones were flushed pink from dancing, but she was otherwise prim and pristine. "He's asking everyone about their robes."

"Shut up, Anastasie," Max said without heat. He slung an arm around Léopold, who had approached them too. Léopold shrugged the arm around his shoulders off without even a flinch, but gave him a smacking air kiss above one slanted cheekbone. "Aw, _merci_ , Léopold."

"Anything to keep you off my back for the rest of the night." His tone was crisp but there was a smile playing on his lips. Monique felt a small smile creep up on her own lips, a genuine one, as Anastasie reached behind Max and shoved her brother. She knew Max was pansexual and Léopold was straight - the touching was just something they did. Monique lowkey suspected the latter was as straight as a wavy line, not that she would voice so directly to Léopold.

She took another mouthful of wine, letting the taste last on her tongue as Lucrèce said, "You guys are adorable." Her voice was joking, easy, and a side-glance confirmed that she had relaxed from their earlier conversation.

"No drink, Lucrèce?" Max inquired. He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. "Even I've had a tumbler of Scotch."

Under her breath, Anastasie muttered, "Or four." Monique paid her no attention, focused on her friend - who had suddenly pasted on a too-bright smile.

"Oh, just cutting back for Quidditch season," Lucrèce remarked lightly, jovially. Monique felt her insides relax slightly, but kept her outward composure. "I've got to get back in shape after a summer of not doing anything."

Anastasie scoffed, "Oh, please. You're in _much_ better shape than I am. You and Monique - it must be all that time in a vineyard walking around. Meanwhile, I was in America doing _nothing_."

"Stop it, Anastasie, honestly," Monique sighed, flashing her a smile to take off the bite in her words. "You're in great shape." And she was - her robes fit her nicely, highlighting her slight figure.

Max was clucking his tongue, squeezing her shoulder and Léopold rolled his hazel eyes.

"Drama queen," he muttered under his breath and Anastasie reached over, tugging at his ear sharply. Her brother pulled away with ease. He looked mostly unfazed by the exchange, a slight irritation to his quirked brows, and Monique hid a half-smile behind her glass.

These were some members of the newest generation of _Les Famillies Sacro-Saintes_ and she loved them.


	2. Un

_Archambault: (n.) French surname; meaning "related to Archibald."_

The Archambaults reside in the Archambault Estate, as it's known in English. The Archambault family has relatives scattered all the over the world - most prominently in Scotland and England where the Archibald family name ranks just below the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

They're a political family - widely known for their work in the French Ministry's Foreign Relations department and their participation in the International Confederation of Wizards. Several Archambaults have even held long reigns as Supreme Mugwump. In fact, one can always find a member of the family in a powerful position. They're happy to take charge, to lead, leaving them a delicate relationship with the _Roy famille_. If the family has had any scandals (they have, though they are few and far between) they are surprisingly good at covering their tracks. Perhaps due to their power, their enormous wealth or their renowned wand-wielding skills. Their main trademark, however, is not their wandwork. It is that every Archambault speaks at least five languages with the most common being French, English, Latin, Gaelic and Spanish.

The Archambault family motto is _"Utilisez la connaissance de relation avec les soins."_ (Or _"Use the knowledge of relationships with care."_ ) It's engraved around the family crest of a tree, it's long branches extending outward and around, with an "A" centered on the trunk.

* * *

Josse Archambault was not enjoying himself. Instead of going out to play Quidditch with his friends, he was stuck babysitting his sisters on the last week of summer. It was the first clear day of the week and his parents just _had_ to leave to London for the day. Merlin's pants, honestly...

There was nothing really wrong with Marjolaine, per say. She was nine, loved Quidditch as much as he did and was a huge cinema and Alchemy fanatic. He just felt a certain amount of disdain for her as, for some reason, their parents thought she desired human company. Weren't the House Elves enough?

"Josse?" He looked down from his perch on the window-seat and immediately stubbed out his cigarette. _Merde_. He hadn't meant to smoke in front of Marjolaine. In fact, he absolutely detested smoking in front of her.

" _Oui, mon souer_?" Josse prompted, leaving the ashy Gauloises on the silver ash tray.

Marjolaine's wide eyes never strayed from his, not even to look at the smoke in wonder as she'd down before. "Would you like to play some Quidditch?" She extended a hand towards him that held his precious Firebolt, the latest of the line. In her other hand was her own Streaking Comet 2200.

Josse felt something in his heart soften, a bit of his annoyance disappear.

"I'd love to, _mon cherie_."

When they made it outside, the sky was clear and bluer than his Quidditch robes. Marjolaine, in fluttering white flying robes, carried the Snitch in hand. Josse was actually a Beater and Marjolaine had preferred playing Keeper since she was five. However, since their positions didn't correspond well with each other, they both liked to play games of Catch the Snitch when they were alone.

Josse figured it never hurt to get in more speed or agility training.

"Pétale?" He strolled over to the House Elf they'd summoned to the vast, grassy back lands of the Estate. "Would you mind?" Josse motioned towards the Snitch his sister held and the House Elf nodded, bowing deeply.

"It would be my honor," she squeaked, taking the Snitch.

Josse and Marjolaine shifted to face each other and Pétale, well-practiced in this, dutifully released the Snitch and carefully, evenly counted to five before the siblings took off.

The wind combed through his hair and Josse immediately felt the tension from today bleed out. Merlin's pants, he loved flying. He let himself rise, higher and higher, until he had the perfect bird's eye view and slowly circled around. Below him, he could see Majorline flying long, repetitive straight lines that crossed over each other. It was another Seeker tactic and Josse found himself impressed - he didn't even know she knew, well, any Seeker's tactics.

It couldn't have been in ten minutes later when he spotted a glint of gold to his far left and shot out to it. In his peripheral vision, he could see his sister swooping up. The Snitch eluded them both, swerving up and right and left and disappearing. It left both siblings to breathe out heavy breaths as they broke away from each other to await a glimpse of it again.

Their Seeker's game lasted a little over three hours. When they dragged themselves inside (the score was 4-3 in Marjolaine's favor - her last dive had been simply beautifully executed), the sun was setting, the hour late. The sky streaked with rose pinks, brilliant gold, deep purple, faded blue behind them. They both headed off to shower and cool down, change into more respectable clothing.

At the glass dining table, spelled to have gold patterns running intricately the surface and long enough to seat at least a hundred, Josse was fairly surprised to find his parents already waiting. There were glasses of red wine in hand, both in more casual robes for a family dinner.

"Business was cut short," his mother said, her voice light and eyes hard. The stubborn English Ministry of Magic must not have been cooperating, then.

Josse let his parents tension roll over his shoulders as he drew his seat. "I'm sorry to hear that, _Mère_." Not a beat later did Marjolaine make her appearance, hair in twin braids and sun-kissed skin bare of jewelry. She froze at the sight of their parents and Josse found himself rising. He laid a hand on her shoulder. She looked at him questioningly and he shook his head minutely, guiding her to her seat.

" _Bonjour, Mère et Père_ ," she murmured, bowing her head respectfully.

Their father coughed lightly. " _Bonjour, chéri_."

Josse internally fumed at his parents. First, they stuck him with his sister and _then_ they returned to ruin the amiable atmosphere that the siblings had finally achieved. Merlin, couldn't he find a break?

His parents murmured to each other as dinner was brought up by the House Elves and served and only when his father had taken a bite did Josse dig in. His anger stewed in the glinting dining light, hands clenching around silverware. He cut into his steak with the slightest bit more force than necessary. How he wished for a cigarette with it. He glared at the pepper shaker and it rushed over towards him. Down the table, his mother nodded at the plate of vegetables - which flew down the table to serve her.

His parents sipped wine from Italian-blown crystal glasses and Marjolaine looked down, clearly uncomfortable in the stifling atmosphere. The words that were exchanged were directed towards her and thankfully not Josse.

Marjolaine was soft-spoken and sweet, yet clever. She was the dream child, while Josse was sharp-tempered and silver-tongued. He was considerably less favorable in social situations despite his ability to make friends easily. It was a bittersweet thing.

"There's talk of the next European Quidditch Cup being in Milan," their father murmured. "I'll be going to sort it out with Etienne next week."

"Hopefully they will be very accommodating," their mother said and Josse didn't miss the implications of 'more accommodating than the English.' "Pierre arranged for rooms?"

"I'll be arranging for rooms, actually," said their father, taking a delicate sip of wine. "Would you like to come? Pierre's dealing with the talk of building a new neighbourhood in Versailles and reviving some of the lost streets."

Their mother shook her head, not a strand of hair out of shape. Her chandelier earrings, bought for over five-hundred Galleons from Greece, swayed just above the rich velvet robes that covered her shoulders. "It's my turn to host brunch for the ladies. Perhaps Josse would like to come?" There was something faint in her voice that sounded like disapproval. Josse gritted his teeth, took a sip of his cocktail he'd filled his glass with - vodka and juice.

"Perhaps," his father agreed and Josse had had enough.

"May I be excused?" he asked. His china plate was clean. His feet bounced against the pale palette, mosaic tile floor. "I have to get up early. I'm traveling to Spain with Leopold tomorrow."

His father's eyebrows lifted, just enough to be mildly surprised. "Ah, yes, you're going on a trip. You may be excused, give Leopold our best."

Josse gave the barest of nods and let his eyes hold Majorline's gaze a split second longer than normal, let himself feel sympathy for her to be stuck at the table with his parents while he escaped. But there was no excuse to get her away, so he fled.

Propping himself up on the same window-seat he had been occupying before, he lit up a cigarette and exhaled heavily.

Merde.


End file.
